


Reindeer?

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Other, but the physical stuff hasn't come up, for this fic i imagine they've been soft and romantic since the failed apocalypse, i wasn't actually certain, it's all implied in a face-to-black style but if i need to up the rating let me know, they just skip right to business, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 20 for the beautiful advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale has preferences with it comes to textures, and it's important that Crowley know that.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136





	Reindeer?

They are a few too many glasses of excellent wine into a rather ridiculous discussion - about reindeer, of all things - when it happens.

“I just don’t see why people are so - so - _enamored_ with them. They’re ug - unglue -”

“Ungulates?” Crowley offers helpfully. He is delighted when the inebriated angel carefully mouths out each syllable, lips curving around the second vowel almost obscenely, before butchering the word again.

“Ungluates. Yes, that.” Aziraphale gestures with his wineglass. “What’s that, anyway?”

“Something to do with feet, I think?”

“No, that’s ceph - seffa - hmm. Sea creatures. Not horses.”

“Are reindeer horses?” Crowley muses, topping off Aziraphale’s glass.

“Close enough,” the angel replies. “All those - what was the word. Unglue - unglue toes.”

“Ungulates,” Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes in exasperation. 

“Yes. And that’s beside the point.”

“What _was_ the point?” Crowley teases.

“Well, people love them!”

It’s not fair, really; Crowley is significantly less intoxicated than Aziraphale - hence his lack of trouble with words. He’s been mostly following the angel around in conversational circles for his own enjoyment, delighting in Aziraphale’s new carefree behavior. He’s found himself drinking less, lately, now that things have settled - less desperately, less intensely, now that he no longer needs the convenient excuse, the pretense of inebriation to let his guard down and his feelings out. He can be honest, and open, and _sincere_ in this new not quite post-apocalyptic world, without alcohol paving the way and blurring the line between what is and is not acceptable to imply, to intimate, to confess.

Aziraphale, by contrast, may not be drinking _more_ but is drinking more freely. Breaking loose from Heaven’s shackles has allowed him to indulge in ways he dared not before; now, instead of maintaining the appearance of two hereditary enemies on opposite sides of a line - or a table, in their case - he has settled himself on the sofa to Crowley’s right, slouched into it as if making himself a home there. Before Armageddon’t, Aziraphale had always been the one to prompt them to propriety, to sobriety, to remind them to straighten up and keep behind their respective lines.

But the lines have gone now, all of them; the shackles and the excuses, too. Aziraphale can relax and let himself be as loose as the free-flowing wine, and Crowley can openly bask in the glow of the angel’s regard. There are no more premises or pretenses or appearances. There is just them, just Aziraphale and Crowley, sharing wine and laughter and absurd conversation in the quiet back room of a Soho bookshop.

Nothing has changed. Aziraphale loves Crowley; Crowley loves Aziraphale.

Everything has changed.

“Of course people love them,” Crowley replies, dragging his thoughts from their sappy destination. They’re talking about _reindeer_ , for Someone’s sake - this isn’t the time to get reflective and romantic, even if he _can_ , now, if he wants to. “They’re…fuzzy.”

Aziraphale snorts into his now empty glass before discarding it on the table. “Fuzzy,” he declares, “is boring.”

“Oh?” Crowley offers the last of the bottle to Aziraphale, who waves a hand in negation, before depositing it on the table with the empty glasses. “Boring?”

“Boring, yes, do keep up, my dear. Fuzzy is boring. I prefer sleek,” he adds, “like scales. Or perhaps…skin.”

He runs a finger down the curve of Crowley’s cheek. When the demon turns to look at him, that same finger traces across Crowley’s bottom lip.

Fire follows in its wake.

“Angel,” Crowley says slowly, trying to ignore the sudden burning under his skin. “Are you…flirting?”

Aziraphale quirks a smile at him. Oh, he’s _definitely_ flirting. “Is it working?”

 _Yes, yes, oh absolutely yes_. “Maybe.”

Aziraphale’s smile goes wicked at the edges, and the fire under Crowley’s skin builds to a conflagration. Still, cautious, he chases the angel’s hand with his mouth, presses an open kiss to the palm there.

“You should sober up.”

The pout he receives in return nearly scalds Crowley’s skin clean off. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” Crowley allows. “But the first time should -”

“It’s not my first,” Aziraphale informs him with a saucy smile. “I said I - oh, but is it yours?”

Oh, Crowley is helpless for that look; he sucks a deliberate kiss into Aziraphale’s palm where his mouth is still turned into it, locking eyes with the angel. “No. But it’s _ours_.”

“First implies a second.” Aziraphale’s voice is cautious, rising like a question at the end, and Crowley feels it like a stab to the chest.

“And more, I hope,” Crowley answers.

“So many more,” Aziraphale replies heatedly. 

Forget conflagration; the fires of Hell have never burned so hot as Crowley feels right now. “Sober up,” he begs.

“And after, we’ll…?” But Aziraphale is already sobering even as he trails off, smacking his lips and scowling at the aftertaste.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley promises, already crowding into Aziraphale’s corner of the sofa. “We might never stop.”

It’s meant as a last warning, a final chance to turn back; he’s sober now, they both are, and Aziraphale might yet change his mind. Instead, the angel curls his hands in the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, yanks the demon closer, until he’s sprawled across Aziraphale’s chest.

“Good,” Aziraphale answers, and drags Crowley down for the first kiss of so very, very many.


End file.
